


Trouble, Set Me Free

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Anders Positive, Bisexual Disaster Marian Hawke, Character Study, Coming of Age, Crushes, Gen, Hawke Family Feels, Hawke and Anders meet, Hawke started attacking people at a young age, Light Angst, Pining, Young Love, kids making terrible decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: Marian Hawke is sixteen and stuck in Lothering with an overbearing mother, too many responsibilities and a magical talent she can never use.Anders is seventeen, too cocky for his own good and on his fourth escape from the Circle tower. But when a stupid idea goes wrong and he realises he isn't the only apostate around, his newfound freedom might not last as long as he'd hoped - especially when he gets roped into a tradition that could go very wrong, very fast...It's the Saturday before Summerday, and something's about to go down.An imagining of what might've happened had the two met before the Blight hit and everything went to shit, set across a single day.
Relationships: Anders & Hawke, Background Anders & Surana, Background Anders/Karl Thekla, Female Hawke/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter One

Market day was always Marian’s least favourite day of the week, and today was no different. Today was somehow _worse._ Summertide was barely few days away: Lothering was drowning in bright banners and ribbons, every window-box and meadow just bursting with blooms, and _Maker_ was the market square packed. The heat was rotten, too, the kind of warmth that had your hair sticking to the nape of your neck and your skin dewed all over. Knowing she’d have to take part in this year’s procession was bad enough. The idea of having to don a stupid white gown and march to the Chantry in _this_ weather, past the cold, piercing stares of the Templars, was enough to make Marian consider taking the bread she’d just paid for and fleeing into the endless fields of the Bannorn.

“Won’t you be a sight!” Melora, the baker’s wife, beamed as she deftly wrapped their wheaten loaves in brown paper. “Oh, your mother must be so excited. I remember when my Rose had her Summerday—she met her husband at the procession, you know! Such a lovely way to start a courting…”

The woman trailed off with a wistful sigh.

With a forced smile, Marian rifled around in their mother’s small coin-purse, then passed two silvers across the stall-front and gestured for her sister to grab their little pile of bread. All this talk of husbands and courting and coming-of-age made her mouth taste sour. Dresses and matchmaking were all the goodwives of Lothering had been fussing about for the past month. Marian was as sick of it as she was of this blighted heat.

“I dare any man to court me,” was all she said in reply. “How dull. Come now, Beth, don’t tarry.”

Melora looked slightly taken aback, but Marian took her sister by the hand and led her away, before she could get clucked at for her sharp tongue.

“Don’t say a thing to mother,” she warned Bethany, when they were far enough away from the bakers’ stall to be out of Melora’s earshot. The thick tide of bodies around them rippled and swelled, sweltering beneath the unusually fierce Bloomingtide sun. Clutching their bread in one clammy hand and her sister’s arm tightly with the other, Bethany pressed into Marian’s side as they wove their way towards the butcher.

“But you _were_ rude,” Bethany countered. “Melora was only trying to be nice, Mari. Don’t you want to meet someone dashing and handsome, like in all the best stories?”

As always, the girl spoke so sweetly that Marian wondered whether she should feel bad for what she’d said, although only for a second. How Bethany managed to be delightful even when being such a priss was astounding.

“Men are idiots. And it doesn’t matter what I want.” Marian dropped her voice to a murmur, feeling her skin prickle as passers-by glanced their way. She stopped for a second, scanning the market for the last few things on their mother’s hastily written list—a thick breast of lamb, a few herbs they didn’t grow in the garden, some of the candied fruit that Carver loved if they had a few coppers spare. Marian glanced back down at her sister, feeling her heart shrink a little. “We can’t marry, Beth. You know that.”

Bethany’s face fell, like it always did when her older sister muddied her dreams. “But what if—”

Someone shouldered into Marian suddenly, sending her stumbling back a few steps. Marian felt Beth’s hand slip from her arm as she almost tripped; anger stirred in her belly. Something dark itched at her palms, too, but she found her feet and shoved the feeling down. _Not here,_ her father would have intoned. _Deep breaths, Marian!_

All that shit.

“Hey!” She yelled after them, twisting around. “Watch where you’re going, jackass!”

People paused and turned to stare for a moment at the shout— _Leandra’s girl_ , she heard a few mutter at the commotion—but whoever had knocked her didn’t stop, only glanced back to call “Sorry, miss! Didn’t see you there!”

Before they slipped into the maw of the crowd, Marian caught sight of a mess of thatch-blonde hair and a long, aquiline nose. They—no, it had been _he,_ hadn’t it—had slipped into the teeming crowd before she could burn much more into her memory. A man. Of course. What little she knew of them from half-drunken encounters behind barns always seemed to ring true: careless, terrible with their hands and only after one thing. Even if she could have married, Marian wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“Dickhead,” Marian muttered, rolling her shoulders.

“Mari!” Beth squealed, holding the bread to her chest as if it were the only thing keeping her from keeling over in shock.

Raising an eyebrow, the elder Hawke ran a hand across her valuables, just in case. “Don’t tell mother about this, eith…oh, shit.”

When she felt an unusual emptiness at her belt, her stomach dropped.

The coin purse was gone. That month’s money, gone.

“Fuck,” Marian hissed. “Fucking fuck!”

Leandra rarely trusted her eldest with the family’s money, moreso now that she was old enough to get served in the tavern without so much as a second look. Knowing their mother, this had probably been a test of some sorts—a test Marian had now soundly failed.

“Dickhead!” Ignoring the gasps of horror at her outburst, she whipped round to face her sister and dropped to a crouch.“Run home and wait in the barn, would you? I’ll be back before you know it. And _don’t_ let mother see you.”

Wide-eyed, Bethany just nodded as her sister straightened up, clenched her fists and started to barrel through the crowd.

* * *

Anders didn’t run. Running always drew more attention. Attention was bad. Attention meant Templars and shackles and getting locked in a cupboard for a week to teach you a lesson.

But it’d been two weeks now, and no run-ins. No Templars. No smiting. They’d be after him, no doubt—rumour had it that his phylactery was on Greagoir’s person at all times now—but so far, he’d managed to evade them. And with the money in the weighty coin-purse he’d managed to ghost off that scowling girl...

Adrenaline rushed through him at the thought of being able to buy his way onto a ship in Gwaren. South had been a good idea. A fucking _great_ idea. Two weeks and not a sign of any flustered soldiers on his trail. Striding across the bridge that spanned Lothering’s narrow, lazy river, Anders felt positively giddy; he started to weave his way through grassy fields with a wide, wicked grin on his face. To let the sun kiss his pasty, bare skin, he rolled up the sleeves and unlaced the neck of the worn green shirt he’d stolen off a clothesline a few days before. To savour the taste of fresh air, he opened his mouth wider as he walked, not caring in the slightest if he looked like a lunatic. The sweet rush of sun-drenched freedom was worth a few funny looks. It was almost better than sex. Almost.

The ground didn’t taste as good as freedom, though.

Something ploughed into Anders with the force of a raging druffalo. All the air crashed from his lungs as someone tackled him to the dirt. The coin purse spun from his hand, spilling open as it collided with the dirt trail in front of him. His jaw made a horrible sound as his face smashed against the earth. Pain and panic flooded through him as he thrashed and tried to slither from beneath the body pinning him to the ground, but they were heavy, almost as heavy as a Templar—

“Thief piece of _shit_! You think you can steal from me, huh?”

Anders’ face throbbed. Bent grass itched at his skin, and faintly, he could taste the bitter iron of blood, as well as soil. He wasn’t sure if he could open his mouth to thank the Maker, but he damn well wanted to. This was no knight.

“Get _off_ me,” he managed to groan, but the girl from the market had her knee jammed against his back and her fingers bunched in his shirt and Andraste’s flaming ass, she was fucking strong _._ Circle girls weren’t this strong—though he was usually on top of _them_ , and those encounters were always a little more enjoyable than this.

The air was slowly sucking back into his chest, but if she pressed down any more, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to breathe. He needed her off him. He needed to run _._

Wincing, he craned his head upwards, tried to see if he’d have a clear path forwards. In the corner of his eye, he saw a glint against the rich brown of the earth.

Something clicked in his mind.

As fast as he could, he darted a grasping hand forwards, towards the loosened purse.

Instantly, the girl let out a feral growl and dove towards the money, but she was too slow.

He could’ve cried out in relief as her weight released. Heart pounding, he scooped up the purse and most of the coins, just as her fingers tore through the dirt barely inches from his. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain spearing through his body, and forced himself into a sprint. This girl may have been the human equivalent of a mabari, but he had years of practise. He would be faster, so much faster—

“Run and I’ll get the Templars!” she hollered. Her voice carried on the breeze like a hag’s wail.

Anders froze where he stood, as if her words had turned him to stone. The loose dirt slick beneath his feet, he nearly overbalanced, catching himself at the last minute. His stomach dropped. Slowly, very slowly, he turned.

A slow, horrible smile appeared on the girl’s face. Her eyes—vivid blue, and ghastly—were narrowed. She started towards him, and he shouldn’t have been scared, because what was she but a scrawny farm-girl, too tall for her clothes and too tenacious for her own good?

Suddenly, though, he was.

“Give me my money.”

“Please,” he urged, voice thin and wavering. Everything in him was screaming: his jaw, his muscles, his mind. Idiot. Stupid fucking idiot. He should’ve bolted when he’d had the chance. “I just need to—”

“Give me,” she repeated, lacing the threat with poison, “my _money_ , thief.”

Before Anders could realise that there a sickly white sheen glowed across her hands, a spirit bolt slammed into his chest. As his body cracked against the ground—again—and the purse spilled from his hand—again, Anders could barely register his thoughts. He’d taken enough spirit bolts to be able to push through the pain, but this was different. His nerves felt like they were ablaze. His skin felt like it were peeling off. All he could see was pure, bright white.

A mage. A powerful mage. Here. Outside the Circle. Faintly, he realised he was keening like some injured animal, dropping to his knees, clawing at his chest. It wasn’t—this wasn’t possible—how could she—

“Maker’s _breath_ , Marian!” A man’s hiss, laced with fear and worry and poker-hot fury.

“Fa—I was just—”

“Not a word, girl.”

Rough hands yanked Anders to his feet.

“Walk.”

Anders knew better than to argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This is my first fic (I've basically been playing DA and writing to get myself through lockdown) and I'm just here to chat shit, wonder what it would've been like had baby Hawke & Anders ever met, and have fun, really. I realise Anders is probably a bit older than Hawke in-game, but as always, the best canon is the one you've tricked yourself into believing is real.
> 
> Any comments/feedback are always welcome, and if you want to hear any of my very elaborate handersheadcanons, I am more than happy to scream them at the top of my lungs (read: have lengthy discussions in the comments. warning - in this house we love and respect Thedas' dumbest blonde mage.)
> 
> Title stolen from Father John Misty, because I love misery and couldn't think of anything better/more relevant


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets a talking to, whilst things are looking up for Anders - although ghosts of the past, as well as troubles of the present, still linger...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: physical abuse, traumatic past/childhood
> 
> Anders' dad was an asshole and this chapter hints as to why - please look after yourselves when reading!  
> If any more warnings are required, please let me know and I'll update immediately.

“I _cannot_ believe—”

“Fa, I was—”

“You were so _stupid_ as to cast—”

“Really, I know—”

“In the _middle_ of the day—”

“But Fa—”

“Enough, Marian!”

Malcolm Hawke rarely raised his voice. When he did so now, the sound was all-encompassing. A horrid shiver crawled through her: Marian winced and slowly lowered her gaze to the hard dirt floor, feeling as though even so much as glancing at her father would be akin to poking a riled bear.

Over by the door to the narrow entryway, Malcolm exhaled sharply. He was pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing, in that way he did when there was a lecture coming. “That was a childish, utterly reckless thing to do. I don’t care what he did. You’re lucky he’s like us.”

“What?” The word was more a squeak. “A mage? Him?”

“A mage,” her father echoed, tersely, “and one with a brain, at that. Harken the thought!”

“But—” Balling her fists so hard she could feel her nails almost breaking skin, Marian bit back a frustrated roar. For five years she’d been told to protect her family, look after her siblings, because they were young and helpless and it was her responsibility. Five blighted years. And when she did, she got _this?_ “Father, I don’t understand—”

“What _,”_ her father interrupted, voice edged with steel, “is there not to understand about controlling your magic?”

Controlling her magic? She spent every waking _minute_ controlling her magic. She spent every night refusing demons, damming her strange and confusing desires until she could barely keep her head above water. Still scowling hard at the floor, Marian chewed at the inside of her cheeks. She wanted to scream. “I was doing everything you’ve told me to!”

“By potentially alerting every Templar in Lothering to what you are? To what your sister is? Maker’s breath, Marian, you’re not some fledgling child! After everything I’ve taught you, I’m disappointed.”

A sneer curled her lip. “Disappointed? Oh, what a good one—”

“You’ll be quiet when you listen to me, Marian!” Malcolm barked. “Your mother and I didn’t bring you up for sixteen years for you to act like this.”

Marian bit down on her tongue, balking at her father’s tone. No doubt Carver would be listening through the door, enjoying his sister’s humiliation; even scraping the age of twelve, he could be a spiteful little shit. No doubt that thief could hear her getting her arse roundly handed to her, too. Bastard. At the thought, her cheeks blazed.

“Sorry, Father,” she mumbled, not daring to look at him. She gazed, coldly, at the panelled wall behind him instead.

Malcolm let out another short breath. “Marian, I…everything I do, I do to protect you.”

This, again. She could recite his favourite lines by memory. “I know, Father.”

“I understand what it’s like, love. I do.”

“I know, Father,” she repeated, without really thinking.

“I don’t want you to end up like him.”

This was new. “What?”

“That boy.” Malcolm gestured to the door; behind it lay the rest of the roundhouse’s lower floor, where her mother was keeping a watchful eye on the thief as he warmed himself at the stove. “Do you think he tried to pickpocket you for fun?”

“I…perhaps.” Marian shrugged loosely. In all honesty, she hadn’t considered as to why. Just that he _had,_ and that he’d gotten the better of her, and that she was furious.

“He escaped the Circle. If he has even a copper to his name, I'll be damned, let alone a safe place to sleep.”

“Escaped?” Her eyes widened, gaze flying up to her father. That wasn’t possible. “But you can’t just leave, not without help. It’s a prison! That’s why we have to move, and hide—”

“Exactly, pup.” Words softer now, Malcolm came over to where she was sat on a small bench that was usually dotted with muddy boots. Dropping to a crouch, he placed a hand on her knee: it was warm, reassuring, even though she felt both worn out and hideously on-edge. “The Templars are hunting him as we speak. They have…ways of finding Circle mages. They aren’t kind to those who manage to break out. And this, I think, is not his first attempt.”

“Andraste's ass! Is he insane?”

“Marian!” Malcolm scolded, but it was only half-serious. His brow knotted a little as he considered his next words. “Life in the Circle isn’t a life, not really. I know _this_ isn’t what you want, either, but I don’t want a life like that for you. I don’t want that for him _,_ either, or anyone, but especially not for you or Beth.”

_So you always needed to be on your guard. You always need to wear your mask. Be nice, be charming, say the right thing._

If only Marian was nice, or charming, and could say the right things.

At her hopeless expression, Malcolm squeezed her leg.“I know it’s hard, but it’s for the best, pup. And I’m proud of you for trying. Remember that.”

Marian’s heart twisted. “Fa…”

He rose, folding his arms. “Don’t think I’m not still angry at you.”

She huffed. “Noted.”

Distantly, her mother called to the two of them. Empty bowls clattered against the round table on the other side of the dividing wall.

Malcolm smiled and smoothed Marian’s ink-dark hair. “Come on, love. Time for supper.”

* * *

Questions. These children were bursting with questions _._ It’d been non-stop since their father had hauled him over the threshold; they were worse than the new kids the Templars dragged to the Circle. Anders didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was glad that they were only shutting up to take bites of their rich rabbit pie. Piping hot and covered in a layer of flaky, buttery pastry, it tasted better than anything he could remember eating for a long while.

Dinner had been a tense, quiet and uncomfortably warm thing, not that he’d been expecting otherwise. Marian was gloomy, simmering in self-pity. Her mother, meanwhile, watched his every move from across the table, shooting unimpressed looks at her husband whenever he deigned to open his mouth; it was obvious she hadn’t wanted the runaway to stay long. Without the twins’ well-meaning interrogation, the room would have been practically silent, save for the huffs of the portly mabari snoozing over by a window.

“What’s your name?”

“How old are you, exactly?”

“Are you really a mage?”

“Maker’s balls, are you healing yourself?”

(That one had earned a sharp _tsk_ from their mother.)

“Where are you going?”

“Is the Circle _that_ bad?”

“Could you teach me to become a mabari?”

Anders had only grunted in reply to them, until that final question. That one made him snort into the mint tea that Marian had shoved at him after they’d eaten. Moon-eyed and hopeful, the younger girl’s expression—Bethany, wasn’t it?—was utterly earnest and overwhelmingly endearing as she swept the floor with a brush that must’ve been about twice her size.

“Why do you want to be a mabari?” he asked. Gently, he prodded along his jaw as he spoke, checking the re-location, feeling for any tenderness. Having an affinity for healing had been terrifying at first, what with the spirits and all, but Anders grew more grateful for his talent every time he ran. How many times had they saved his skin?

No pain, thankfully. Everything seemed to have slotted back into place. Enchanter Wynne would have been proud—of the healing, not the hideous attempt at a beard that had sprung up since he’d snuck his way out of the tower. Maker, it was _itchy._ Karl found the rough, blonde stubble a delight, but he’d never warned about this.

The boy cawed, as if in victory. “So you do talk! I knew it!”

“Of course he talks. He’s a mage, not an idiot.”

The older sister finally piped up from where she now sulked across the other side of the roundhouse proper. Their lump of a mabari was plopped at her feet, having trotted over after dinner. Marian’s scowl had only deepened since her father had hauled the two of them in, and she’d been stubbornly quiet since Malcolm had taken her through to their narrow entryway for what he’d termed a “discussion.”

From the snippets of their conversation he’d caught, Anders could see why. It had been a lighter version of the kind of lambasting that Irving liked to give Anders on his ungraceful returns to Kinloch Hold. All _you have a responsibility!_ and _I do this to protect you!_ Same old shit. Even though Marian had nearly broken his jaw and had slammed him with a screamer of a spirit-bolt, Anders almost felt sorry for her.

The pity stopped short when he remembered that she was free, though. That she was safe, and didn’t have Templars breathing down her neck for daring to express her opinions, and had a father who didn’t think she was a monster just for existing. Didn’t she realise how lucky she was?

Jealousy stung sour on his tongue. Reluctantly, Anders buried it. The girl might have been a fool, but he wasn’t about to get himself thrown out onto the street by telling her.

“Well, you’re a mage _and_ an idiot,” her brother retorted. “So there.”

“Carver!” Their mother scolded from over by the stove, where she was drenching some freshly-baked babka buns in a mountain of honey.

“It’s true,” the child mumbled, though the words lacked his former conviction.

Marian didn’t indulge him, just harrumphed and slid her feet beneath the snoozing hound. She looked as tired as Anders felt, and even grouchier. Though she had that same piercing blue stare, sharp features and thick tumble of raven-feather hair as her sister, the two were night and day. If Bethany was a small ray of sun, Marian seemed more like a winter’s gale. Age probably helped; Bethany likely hadn’t come into her magic so long ago. Turning into a mabari probably seemed like a wholly plausible thing to do, and she wasn’t grown enough to want the things she could never have.

"Well, Pork must get lonely," Beth reasoned, in reply. "Also, I just think it would be fun to scare the Templar recruits."

Marian grinned wolfishly. "Finally, proof we're related!"

“Unfortunately,” Anders said to the younger girl, unable to repress a smile, “the Circle doesn’t exactly approve of that sort of thing. Go find a Witch of the Wilds. I’m sure one of those would help.”

Mid-sweep, Bethany looked horrified. “Do you not have stories in your tower? They eat children, you know! And men! And anything!”

“Mari wants to be a Witch of the Wilds,” Carver called. Their parents had slipped outside for another _discussion_ that Anders was fairly certain was about him; the boy had sauntered over to the stove and was scraping thick globs of honey from the jar. Catching sight, Bethany prodded him with the end of the broom, but he just stuck his nectar-dewed tongue out and continued.

Anders raised an eyebrow at the older girl. “Eating men? Interesting goal.”

Marian raised an eyebrow back. “Sounds rather delightful to me. And probably more realistic than yours, anyhow.”

“Ouch. Well, you’ve certainly got the demeanour for it.” He tried to give an impish smile, but the jest landed about as well as he had when he’d tried to clamber his way down the side of Kinloch Hold a year prior, only to end up with spindleweed in places spindleweed shouldn’t be.

Eyes narrowing, Marian remained impressively stony-faced. At her feet, the warhound stirred and opened its peat dark-eyes an inch, as if sensing its master’s mood. The accompanying bared teeth and low growl made Anders tense up.

“I would suggest being _polite_ to the people harbouring you from the Templars,” she said, sharply. “Unless you want me to—”

The heavy roundhouse door swung open, and she swallowed the rest of her sentence, plastering her scowl back on at the sight of her parents appearing over the threshold. As soon as she noticed Carver’s sticky fingers and Bethany’s broom-wielding, their mother made a beeline for the twins. Malcolm came to stand a few paces from where Anders was curled on one of the kitchen chairs, his back to the warm stove.

“Leandra and I are happy for you to stay overnight,” Malcolm declared, with a warm smile. “If you’d like.”

Leandra did not look happy about this in the slightest, but Anders was too delighted to care. Dinner _and_ somewhere to sleep that wasn’t a ditch? People were never this nice. People never saw him, only what he was. People usually handed him straight over. Emotion swarmed in him as he jerked to his feet, almost ready to hug the man: relief, thanks, faint worry. A sickly dash of guilt, too, one that’d been all but nonexistent before. “Are you certain? I don’t want to be trouble, ser—I’m sorry for everything, I am. I just want to…I…”

Anders trailed off. He felt his fists balling and unballing at his sides. His whole body thrummed with energy—half relieved, half hellishly apprehensive. If the Templars found his trail, sniffed him out during the night…there was more at stake than just a few nights in solitary back in the tower, now, wasn’t there?

Warily, he glanced to Marian and Bethany, then back to her father. The eldest girl’s expression was even darker than before. As if to reassure, Malcolm patted him on the shoulder. The touch was kind, fatherly, but Anders flinched away all the same. Gut instinct, even after nearly six years.

Had Malcolm ever beat his children for forgetting lines from the Chant, he wondered?

At the thought, something lodged itself in Anders’ throat. Suddenly, he found himself unable to look the man in the eye.

“There’s no need to call me _ser,”_ Malcolm insisted, ever-genial. _“_ And there’s no need to worry. This will be good practice for Marian’s warding, after all.”

 _“What?”_ The girl’s head snapped up; the mabari lurched to its feet at her hiss, yowling in surprise.

Her father chuckled. “You’re the one who’s so eager to use your magic, pup.”

She threw her hands up in admonishment. “Yes, but—not like _this!”_

“Well, isn’t that just unfortunate, but your non-offensive casting is, frankly, atrocious. Now, come along. I’d rather have this done before it gets too late.“ He turned to Anders. “I hope you don’t mind the hay-shed…”

It took Anders a moment to realise the man was waiting for a name.

Should he tell the truth? Give them something the Templars couldn’t possibly know? _Anders_ was a fabrication, after all, but one that’d stuck. Those first few months in the Circle, he’d refused to speak, let alone offer his true name, so Surana had coined the term. Ever the model mage, she’d read all the illuminated histories of the Blights she could find in the Circle's library by age eleven. She’d clocked his Orth heritage—hideously tall and frighteningly pious—from a league away. Though the moniker reminded him, painfully, of his father, it was less of a connection to the bastard than Anders’ birth name. It would do.

“Anders, ser. And no, ser! Not at all. Thank you! For everything. Dinner was lovely, ma’am, and you’ve all been very—uh—forgiving—”

“Try not to babble,” Leandra called, as she placed the cooling babkas out of the twins’ reach.“You sound like a dullard.”

Marian cackled, but quickly stifled herself after a warning look from her father.

“Children, take Pork for a walk. Be back when it gets dark, or no summer-cakes for either of you,” Leandra instructed, wiping her hands on a cloth. “And not a word about this, do you understand?”

The twins sounded a chorus of _yes, Mama._ Pork—a fascinating choice of name for a mabari—howled along cheerfully.

Malcolm ruffled Beth’s hair as she rushed past, then nodded at his eldest. “Fetch the salt, Marian. Anders, come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, 2 weeks ago: it's just a tiny scrap of an idea! I'll be able to get this done in like 3500 words!  
> Me, now: buckle up baby, looks like we're gonna have 10,000 words recounting the events of one (1) day because boy oh boy I don't know how to pace
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, though! This was an excessively long pause before some Hawke-based shenanigans - I basically wanted some Real Malcolm Hours and for Anders to come face-to-face with a more positive family dynamic (because I feel like his dad selling him out to the Templars would be highly scarring and his childhood is not! dwelt on! enough!)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian has some big plans for the Saturday night before Summerday, but there's a spanner in the works and it's shaped like Ferelden's friendliest mabari.
> 
> Meanwhile, Anders continues to make some (probably) terrible decisions...

Crickets chirping as the breeze sighed through the tall, thick grass. Waning moon hanging low in the star-speckled sky. A chunky bottle of West Hill brandy sloshing happily in Marian’s arms as she hurried across the family homestead. What a perfect night for some light thievery.

Or it would be, if Pork wasn’t such a blighted, adoring idiot.

“Don’t you dare!” Marian tried to keep her hiss as quiet as possible, almost stumbling over the pepper-brown hound as he bounded around her in frantic circles. “Stay, Pork! Leave me alone, damn it!”

They were too close to the house for comfort. Each time he let out a delighted woof, her gut coiled with nerves. If anyone woke, caught her in the act…

Her mother’s wrath didn’t bear thinking about. Maker, she was going to murder Carver for not wrangling the dog into the house like he was supposed to. Any other night, she’d have been happy to bring the furry doofus along. Pork always proved a big hit with her friends, being probably the neediest, least aggressive mabari in all Ferelden. But tonight was different. Having him whining for attention like a barely weaned pup wasn’t going to end well, even if Liss loved him…

Liss was probably wondering where she was. _Bollocks_.

Between the stupid warding for that idiot mage, waiting until her parents had finally caved and gone to bed, and sneaking out the back window, Marian reckoned she must’ve been an hour late. By now, everyone would be merry. Sheep would probably be singing his drunken heart out. Eleri was, no doubt, asleep in an apple tree.

Marian didn’t want to keep them much longer. The brandy her father hid away for Satinalia might’ve tasted like stale piss, but after the day she’d had, she’d get roundly smashed on anything. Steeling her expression, she picked up her pace, ignoring her hound as he lolloped across the grass beside her. Maybe this way, he’d get the message, since _stay_ hadn’t done the trick. So much for mabari being intelligent. Poor old Pork seemed to have missed the boat on that one.

A dozen paces away, the hay-shed and its charming little stowaway loomed. Beyond that were endless fields, the river, freedom. Ten minutes to the orchard, she reckoned, if she managed to make it past Old Barlin’s without setting off any of those blighted traps. Ten minutes till they could concoct their dastardly plan—Maker, she’d be saying prayers until the day of her death if her mother ever found out—and ten minutes till she could see Liss.

But first, she had to solve the problem of Pork.

Marian pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t follow.”

She took a few steps forward, skirting the edge of the barn. He followed.

This _dog._ Sometimes she wished he weren’t the fluffy, ridiculous apple of her eye. Marian swallowed a groan. “Sit, damn you. Be a good boy? For me?”

Pork barely seemed to register her pleading. He just stared up at her with those huge, dark eyes, looking like he’d never done a bad thing in his short, short life, then nuzzled into her, nosing at the heavy bottle in her arms. With a sigh, she nudged him away as softly as she could, then pointed authoritatively at the hay-shed. “Do your job and guard, would you? This isn’t a game!”

The second the words slipped off her tongue, Marian could have kicked herself.

But she didn’t have time. Pork woofed excitedly at _game_ and launched himself head-first at her knees. With a stifled yelp, Marian caught herself before she could fall flat on her arse, but it was too late.

In a slow, beautiful, terrible arc, the bottle of brandy flew from her flailing arms and smashed against the barn wall in a shower of glass and misery.

Pork immediately ran to lap the spillage up. Marian tried to wrestle him from the broken glass, but it was no use—her heart was in her mouth, her drink was all over the wall and the beast may as well have been a boulder.

“Pork!” she squawked, trying to push him away. “You smelly, stupid—”

The creak of a distant door had her choking on her words. Someone in the house had stirred at the commotion.

For a horrible moment, Marian held her breath, still as stone. Then, she did what any responsible almost-adult would do.

She cursed, cast the strongest sleep spell she could muster on her dog, and legged it.

* * *

Anders couldn’t sleep.

No matter that this was the closest thing to a bed he’d had in days and tiredness gnawed at him, bone-deep. Perhaps it was the sticky, muddled heat, or the hay prickling at his skin as he curled into his cocoon of bales, tucked in the corner of the barn’s small mezzanine. Maybe it was the glow of the wards on the door, too. A mimicry of a heartbeat, they pulsed with the same sickly whiteish sheen as Marian’s spirit-bolt. Sometimes, the energy sparked along the sloppy crescent of milk-white salt that Malcolm had instructed him to scatter around the exit, a mirror of the half-moon Marian had begrudgingly outlined on the other side of the door.

“This is nonsense!” she’d protested, halfway through. “Shite from children’s stories—Maker’s balls, Fa, I’m near enough a woman, I think I can say _shite._ Unless you think you should talk to Mother about Summerday…”

Malcolm chuckled. “Cross your mother? Not a chance. Now, at least pretend to be neat, would you?”

If only she could see said nonsense now. Whatever she’d done, the salt amplified it—and Marian’s magic was already strong, even if this were what her father deemed _atrocious._ Aside from Surana—still Irving’s start pupil, even as she plotted to bring the Circle down from the inside—no unharrowed mage Anders had known could conjure wards like this, wards so unwavering that he swore he could feel them pulling energy from the Fade. It was like there were a thunderstorm trapped in this wooden skeleton of a barn: a gentle current flowed from the arcane glyphs into the thick night air, wrapping him in the familiar, comforting hum of magic.

They couldn’t stop the draw of his phylactery, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were there. After everything, they were more than Anders deserved. Void, _all_ of this was more than he deserved. The meal, the forgiveness, the care. Leandra, sharp-edged as she seemed, had fussed over him in her own way, piling his plate and making sure he’d had seconds. Malcolm had taken him under his wing, joking about his own time in the Circle as Marian traced practice glyphs on the barn wall in chalk.

Even the twins had been nice. Well, Bethany had been nice. Carver had tried to set Pork on him numerous times. Thankfully, the hound was more interested in trying to use Anders as a pillow than tearing him to tiny, mage-flavoured shreds.

Surely they wouldn’t give him up. They _couldn’t_ give him up. Could they? Maybe they’d have to. People said the Chantry punished those who sheltered runaways as badly as criminals. And there were mages here, too, powerful mages. This could be a death sentence for them. _He_ could be a death sentence for them—

Wriggling onto his side, Anders tried to calm the swarm in his mind. _Stop,_ he told himself firmly. _Get it together._

He could feel his pulse speeding up, his hands getting even clammier, but he forced himself past the anxiety. Worrying would do nothing. The Templars would find him, one way or another. These people knew the risks more than most. They’d chosen to help. On their heads be it.

If he were here, Karl would have told him he was being selfish. Gentle, clever Karl, who didn’t have a mercenary bone in his body. Karl, who’d be going through his harrowing any day now...

A loud thunk, a smash, and a strangled yelp of “ _Pork_!” broke Anders’ thoughts.

He jerked upwards, muscles tensing. There was a curse—a very familiar curse—and then a flash of light so bright that it knifed through the narrow gaps in the wood-panelled wall.

Marian, casting? And—was she _running_? Over the low buzz of insects, he heard feet pounding against the earth, a stream of _shit shit shit_ _shit!_ between ragged breaths. As he listened, the sounds grew fainter. There was no way she was heading back towards the house.

Smashed glass, curses, magic, running. Anders realised he was grinning as everything slotted into place. So Marian liked to take a few risks, too. Maybe they’d get on after all.

Something urged at him to follow. He was alive. He was free. He probably wouldn’t be for much longer. Why not do whatever the fuck it was that kids his age did after sundown on the Saturday before Summerday? It wasn’t like he was about to go get wound up in anything ridiculous, like robbing a Chantry or something. Marian liked to seem edgy, but she was hardly the type suited to petty crime.

Wasn’t this the whole point of his rebellion, anyway? Why not enjoy himself? Why not _live?_

Adrenaline sparked in his veins. Energised, Anders dug his way past a low stack of hay-bales half-covering the barn wall, revealing the narrow opening that Malcolm had told him to use in case of any Templar-based emergencies. A cursory glance into the moon-bright summer’s night confirmed his guess: a few fields over, an angular figure was storming towards town, ribbons of dark hair streaming behind them in the breeze. Marian. If he hurried, he should be able to catch up before she disappeared completely.

Was this an emergency? Karl wouldn’t have called this an emergency. But then Karl was nice. And Karl wasn’t here.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Anders muttered to himself, shimmying himself through the gap so that he was balanced on the edge of the barn wall. Quickly, he murmured a prayer to Andraste for what he was about to do. Then, he dropped to the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes and set off after Marian, into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to be part of the next one, but I am a fool who chose to use dual POV and have their characters do ridiculous things that need way too much set-up. This is turning into the Ulysses of short fics (read: just really long, Jesus Christ, why is it so long)
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always! Next chapter, we'll get to some fun stuff - we get to meet Hawke's childhood friends, as well as one of bebé Marian's teenage crushes...


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marian has crises, awakenings and, as always, wants to punch something.

She’d killed Pork, hadn’t she?

Lungs screaming, Marian slid to a stop just before the low bridge that crested over the river. Pearls of sweat dewed on her skin as she doubled over to catch her breath, but she barely noticed: a chill spiked through her, as though she’d been doused in ice water. Between everything with Pork and the running and the prospect of what she was about to do, she felt like she were about to retch.

“Bollocks!” she wheezed, hands gripping her knees as tight as vices.

Her dog was probably dead, and it was all her fault.

The thought plagued her as she straightened and tried to steady herself, squinting past the bulk of the creaking windmill up ahead. Behind it, nestled in the crook of the river’s gentle bend, lay the Janiths’ orchard. From here, she could just make out the glow of a small fire flickering in the centre of the wooded grove, illuminating the mess of blossom-heavy boughs above. Someone was humming as they picked on a badly-tuned lute; excited chatter and a familiar laugh, bright and clear as chimes, peppered the air.

But the closeness of her friends did little to still the frantic beating of Marian’s heart, nor the horrid, sickening feeling that’d lodged itself in her throat. She’d only ever cast sleep spells on the twins before, and it hadn’t gone so well. They’d fallen unconscious for two full days, caught in a slumber as deep and silent as a grave. Their mother had been hysterical, kneeling at their bedside for hours on end, praying to the Maker for their release from the spell.

Their father had, for the first time, seemed scared of what his eldest could do.

The memory stung. It was one of many that proved Marian would never be good at _practical_. Her power wasn’t nice, like Bethany’s. Her power was sharp and tearing and ferocious. She was built to hurt.

What would her magic do, she wondered, to an over-fed, over-loved dog who’d probably just swallowed half a bottle’s worth of glass in one go?

“Maker,” she started weakly, thinking a prayer to a god that hated mages and probably didn’t exist was better than nothing _,_ “if you could maybe Make it so Pork doesn’t die, that would be great! I’ll try not to sin at all, I swear. I’ll go to the Chantry every week like Mother wants! Shit, I’ll even get all dressed up for Summerday and drink the rite-wine and jump over that fire with the biggest smile on my face, you hear?”

“Wine? Sign me up! I’ll pass on the fire-jumping, though. Breaking out of Circle towers is enough excitement for one man.”

Marian whipped around, sprung forward and punched Anders in the face.

Or tried to. Maker, he was as quick as he was quiet—ducking just in time, feinting out of her reach. For someone who looked like they’d barely grown into their over-long limbs, he was frustratingly agile.

The runaway threw his hands up, as if in surrender. “Woah! Let’s not repeat this morning, shall we?”

“What the _fuck,_ ” Marian snarled, ready to launch herself at him again, “are you doing?”

A sheepish grin twitched at his face, like this was all just a bit of fun. He ran a hand through his shag of hair and shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. There was a commotion, you see, and I thought I’d do the chivalrous thing and make sure you were all right—”

“You fucking _followed_ me?” Marian was incandescent with rage. Furious didn’t cut it. She felt like a towering inferno. “Are you out of your fucking _mind?”_

First he’d tried to steal from her. Then, he’d wormed his way into her father's heart, had gotten a lovely meal whilst she’d received a bollocking, had put her entire fucking family at risk because boo hoo, he didn’t like the Circle! And now, after she’d embarrassed herself with those wards, after her parents had broken the law to shelter him, he had the audacity to _stalk_ her?

“I could say the same to you,” Anders replied, quirking an eyebrow. “Nice entropic manipulation back there. You’re pretty talented, for an apostate. I thought all you lot did was dance naked under full moons and, you know, weird blood magic rituals.”

_Apostate._ The word rang in her ears, sounding more like shriek. Marian felt the blood rush to her head, her breath catch.

“Shut your mouth.” Stalking up to him, she jabbed a finger into his chest before he could dodge again, relishing in the slight fear that slipped past his cocksure mask. He’d seen her coming, had tried to back away, but he hadn’t clocked the looming oak behind him, one of many dotting the path to town. He collided against the jagged trunk with a wince. “Say that word again and I’ll burn your tongue off, you hear?”

“I was just kidding!” he protested. Pressed up against the tree, he looked a lot less self-satisfied than he had a handful of seconds ago. “It was a joke!”

As he spoke, a small, wicked thought whispered at her mind. Pressed up against the tree with her finger above his fluttering heart, clothes all disheveled, jaw dusted with stubble, dark eyes locked with hers…did he also look strangely hot?

Marian jerked her arm back, like she’d just reached into a blazing fire. _Maker no dear god please—_

“This is a joke to you?” She tried to add grit to her voice, willed her cheeks not to flush. He was not _hot._ He was a cock—no, a dick—Maker’s breath, why was she like this?“If you say another fucking word—”

“Little bird! You finally came!”

A pair of strong, hairy arms hooked beneath her own and swooped her off her feet, turning her words into a wail of surprise.

“Pad! Put me down, you brute!” Marian shrieked, the world blurring as the older boy wheeled her in a wide circle. Her stomach was doing somersaults, though only half-due to being manhandled.

This wasn’t how it was meant to go. Not at all. A runaway mage hadn’t been part of the plan—especially not a runaway mage like _him_.

“Only when you tell me who you’re getting all up close and personal with.” Padric stilled, but kept her dangling. This close, the scent of his warm, cider-addled breath was fierce. “Is _this_ what you’ve been up to instead of drinking with us, sparrow? Not that I can blame you.” Marian just knew he was throwing his most charming smile at Anders, who looked both startled and amused. “Whoever you are, you have a very nice face.”

“What—no!” Marian hissed, feeling her whole body urge to curl in on itself as she hung off the ground, wrapped in Pad’s stifling bear-hug. The more she tried not to look at the mage’s admittedly nice face—fine-boned and angular, with that wicked-sharp nose and an even more wicked grin—the more she found herself gawking at him. “He’s a—”

“Cousin,” Anders finished smoothly. An innocent smile carved across his face, he peeled himself off the oak and tidied himself up. Or attempted to, at least: dark streaks of mud still stained his clothes from their rendezvous earlier that afternoon, and specks of straw were mussed in his hair. “Though I did get the best looks in the family, it’s true. As well as all the manners.”

“Cousin?” Padric dropped her and strode over to sweep Anders under his wide, strapping arm. “Well, you’ll have to tell me all about our little bird, won’t you! She’s very tight lipped, you know. Never has revealed why they came to smelly old Lothering from Amaranthine—the jewel of the coast, they say…”

Flustered, Marian threw a murderous look at Anders’ back. Powerless against the force of Pad’s sheer charisma, he was being shepherded towards the orchard, with Pad excitedly talking _at_ him rather than _to_ him, as usual.

The sickly ache of nausea returned as she watched them walk, replacing the smouldering pit of anger in her stomach. Lying to her parents came easy as breathing, but lying to her friends was another thing altogether. Sober or drunk, Pad would always be distracted enough by a pretty face to forget to question anything, and Sheep was more interested in the fun of a story than the truth of it. But Liss was sharp as knives, Eleri even sharper. Could she spin the tale well enough to fool them?

It wasn’t like she had a better explanation. And it wasn’t like she could just stride up and say _Oh, this is the fugitive mage that my family is sheltering from the Templars! And wouldn’t you know it, I’m a mage, too! How delightful. Pass the mead?_

“Maker’s breath,” she muttered to herself, feeling both hollowed out by the nightmare of a day and nervous for what was to come. Frustrated, too. Sure, she’d been panicking, but how the hell had she not heard him coming?

In another world, if he’d been a Templar, she wouldn’t even have the chance to be frustrated, though.  She’d be Tranquil.

Or dead.

A wave of horror swelled in her at the realisation, but she pushed it down. She could hate herself later. First, she wanted nothing more than half a dozen bottles of the Janiths’ finest. It was time to drink, and time to plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! having a lot of fun writing this - especially with Pad, because I love a himbo, and in my head he's is just a couple charisma point above being dopey enough to qualify. 
> 
> check out the next instalment to see what the hell Anders has gotten himself into...


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders meets Lothering's disaffected youth, alcohol is consumed, and he manages to throw himself in the deep end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poitín can be pronounced puh-cheen/pot-cheen, whichever you fancy!

Even if Marian wished to do nothing more than skin him alive with a blunt, rusty spoon, Anders’ night had significantly improved.

Drinking, it seemed, was whatever the fuck kids his age did after sundown on the Saturday before Summerday. This news was, frankly, delightful. Back in Kinloch, sneaking even a drop of wine—always wine, because the senior enchanters were frightfully dull—from the locked upper-level storerooms was enough to get social privileges revoked for months. Here, alcohol was being thrown at him. Barely two minutes in, a warm bottle filled with an unknown, crystal-clear liquid had been shoved into his hand.

Barely two minutes in and his long-lost cousin was playing her part perfectly, too. Strong enough that he could almost feel her gaze burning through him, Marian’s glare bored holes into his back as Pad rattled through introductions. Tucked away in the distant, dusty, logical corner of his brain—the corner of his brain that remembered what it had been like to be stunned by one of her spirit bolts—a small part of Anders wondered whether he should be worried about her fury, her supply of which seemed Void-deep.

The rest of him revelled in it. This all part of the fun. Weave a yarn, watch as she squirmed, wash her discomfort down with a nice drink. In short, be an ass at her expense. Wasn’t that what family did, after all?

Maker, he was a terrible person.

The realisation was less disappointing than he’d expected. Pad distracted him from it anyway, clapping him on the shoulder as he began to point out members of the merry fellowship dotted around the small grove. Thick as a pine and almost as tall, Pad was perhaps the first person Anders had met to perfectly embody the description _barrel-chested_. Aside from those who licked enough boots to be granted their own staves, most Circle mages were weedish, thanks to the chronic lack of sunlight and exercise brought on by imprisonment. Pad was the opposite—but he didn’t seem like a brute, though he had the same clipped accent as a Templar and an embrace strong enough that it could probably squeeze a man in two.

“The devil on the lute is Sheep,” Pad declared. The flickering fire cast him in golden light, like some hero in one of the romances Surana hoarded beneath her bunk. “If he asks whether you’d like to hear him sing, politely decline; it’s kinder for us all.”

“Hey!” Abruptly, the music stopped. Shirtless but for a puffy, sea-blue doublet and sat cross-legged on the grass a few paces from the fire, the player frowned from beneath his mop of white-blonde curls. “An artist has to hone their talent. It’s about the _craft_ , Merrion.”

“Four fingers, everyone!” Cradled in the gnarled, crooked roots of a nearby tree, a barefoot redhead raised her bottle and chugged. “The craft.” She snorted, eyes half-closed. “I’ll hone _your_ talents, Sheep.”

Honeyed, legato notes flowed from Sheep’s lute, lingering in the pollen-heavy air like drunken whispers. A hazy smirk appeared on his face as he finished his drink. “Is that a threat or a promise, dearest Eleri?”

Eleri wiggled her eyebrows. “Play your cards right and you might find out.”

“Such wickedness!” Pad tutted, took a deep swig of his own drink, then gestured to girl with a wild slosh of his bottle. “Two things about Eleri: she’s a terrible flirt, and she somehow knows everything about everyone in Lothering. She’ll interrogate you, if she manages to stay awake long enough.”

“And Padric will bore you to death if you let him,” came a voice, low and husky.

“Charming!” Pad wheeled around to glare at his next victim. “Little miss Liss here acts like she’s queen of all Ferelden—”

“And maybe I should be. I’m the closest thing this place has to a lady,” the smirking girl across from Sheep interjected, pursing her lips before smoothly downing a measure of clear liquid in one smooth, graceful movement. She wiggled the empty glass between two fingers and threw a smile at Anders—a sly smile that was more teeth than anything else, jagged and sharp, like the smile of a wolf eyeing up its prey. “I’d make a fine regent, don’t you think?”

From that smile alone, Anders could tell Liss was cut from the same cloth as Surana. Supremely confident, extremely intimidating, and supremely confident in the fact that she was intimidating. She was as pretty as Surana, too: smooth, dark skin, cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamond, curling hair wrapped atop her head in a blood-red scarf that may as well have been a crown.

Anders flushed beneath her gaze, then felt guilt knife through him as he immediately thought of Karl. Though they’d never dared to express whatever it was between them, it wasn’t a fling. Anders had slept with plenty of people, but none of them had made the walls of the Circle seem less suffocating like Karl could. Sometimes, when Anders’ mind drifted towards Karl, he felt this ache in his chest, like the older boy had caught Anders’ heart and trapped it in amber.

Anders had already betrayed Karl’s trust by running, again. He’d not ruin things further by getting led astray by some pretty country girl.

“Um, sure,” he mumbled, fumbling the bottle between his hands.

“A little more conviction next time,” she replied, not taking her eyes off him, “if you please.”

Pad cleared his throat. “Now now, Elisabet. Just because your daddy owns this fine orchard, don’t get airs and graces. But yes, that’s Liss. And you already know our little bird, of course. You have the misfortune of being related to her. Tell me, does effervescence run in the family? Hawke is _such_ a charmer.”

“You’re related?” Sheep called, brushing aside his hair to get a better look. Behind the tangle of curls, Anders caught slightly pointed ears. “Really?”

Trying to brush thoughts of Karl aside, Anders attempted a winning smile and gestured between he and his 'cousin'. “Tall, gangly, hideous nose, pale as sin. You couldn’t tell?”

Eleri snorted again. The corner of Liss’ mouth quirked.

“There’s nothing wrong with my nose, arsehole,” Marian muttered, though she wasn’t looking at Pad. She was yanking a cork from a fresh bottle that she’d dug from the pile at their feet, staring straight at Anders.

_I’m going to murder you_ , she mouthed, glower sharp as a dagger, before choosing a spot between Sheep and Liss, dumping herself on the ground and downing half her drink in one.

That small niggle of worry returned, scratching at his brain. Her words felt heavy as an oath.

Beside him, Pad just laughed. “Well, that’s these reprobates. And I, my good man, am Padric Merrion: professional layabout and sixth son of a very minor Bann’s sixth son!” A flourishing mock-bow completed the introductions; he kept talking as he picked his own patch of grass, dropping down to lounge back against an elbow. “So yes, I’m technically a noble, but—”

Sheep groaned, striking a misericord on the lute that drowned out the rest of Pad’s anecdote.

"Three fingers!” Eleri hollered.

Everyone rolled their eyes, stopped what they were doing and drank. Even Padric, who seemed to have been the cause. When Liss realised Anders hadn’t touched a drop, she cocked her head at him. “Bottom’s up, pretty boy. You want in on the fun, you have to play by our rules.”

“Three fingers of drink for _did you know I’m a noble_ ,” Sheep started. “A Merrion classic.”

“Four fingers for _it’s about the craft!_ ” Eleri continued. “Five fingers for every time Hawke goes on about _overthrowing the system_.”

“Two for _my daddy wouldn’t want to hear of this_ ,” Pad finished, throwing a smirk at Liss. “And one for every time Eleri starts a sentence with _um, actually, I think you’ll find_..."

“Fun?” Anders echoed, realising he was the only one left standing. Awkwardly, he lowered to the ground, folding his long limbs in on themselves as his gaze darted between his new companions.

Liss’ terrifying smile returned. “Oh! So Hawke hasn’t told you about our tradition?”

Eleri tittered as the breeze rustled through the boughs above. “How about it! Another tribute for the Summerday trial? You were both very late, after all, and I don’t see the brandy you promised, sparrow…”

Tribute? Trial? What were they talking about?

Marian’s expression was slowly shifting to one of pure, devilish delight.

“What a wonderful idea,” she mused, sweetly. “Now, drink up if you want to find out, _cousin_. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

She held his gaze, steady as a prayer, and took another long draught of her drink, swallowing it with only the barest wince. Suddenly, Anders felt uneasy as the weight of everybody’s eyes settle on him. Something about the demonic glint to Marian’s eyes was starting to seem very off. Something about this whole _night_ was starting to seem very off.

But what would he know? He’d spent the last half-decade locked in a tower. The last Summerday he was free, he’d spent most of it praying, peeking through curtains to watch the revelry when his father wasn’t looking. _Tributes_ and _trials_ were probably just exaggerations. He was being paranoid. Marian wanted his guts for garters, but the rest of them seemed relatively harmless. The alcohol was free and plentiful, too.

And, he realised, he needed to play along. Whatever this was, he'd gotten himself into it. Weaseling out meant questions, and questions weren't good. For him, for Marian, or for her family.

Guilt spiked in him again. His grip tightened on the bottle. Living was slightly more anxiety-inducing than he'd imagined.

_Andraste guide me_ , Anders thought, before raising the bottle in a salute to the rest of them, steeling himself, and throwing whatever in the Maker’s name this stuff was down his throat.

Fire blazed in his mouth, drowned his senses, screamed on his tongue. Everything in his body said _no_ , very fast: he planted a hand across his mouth to try and stop him spitting the burning, vile, acidic liquor out. When he finally managed to swallow it down, he realised his eyes were stinging with tears. Though everything was blurry, when he glanced to Marian, he just knew she looked disgustingly satisfied.

“What the fuck _is_ that,” he spluttered, coughing. Even the air tasted hideous as he gulped it up, trying to exorcise whatever demonic essence it was that he’d just necked.

Liss looked offended. “Only the best poitín infusion you’ll get this side of Ferelden! If my father heard you—”

“Drink!” Eleri squealed.

Taking another swig, Pad grinned at Anders.

“That,” he answered, “is liquid courage. You get used to it, after the first few. Drink up. You’ll need it. They say never to rob a Chantry on a clean liver, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it!
> 
> poitín is Irish moonshine, for anyone who's never had it. my aunts keep it in bottles labelled 'Holy Water' so that people don't accidentally consume it. that stuff would strip the paint off your insides, let me tell you. these kids are drinking a very watered-down version so they don't get severe alcohol poisoning within the hour.
> 
> check out the next instalment to see whether pious Chantry boy Anders commits a hideous amount of sin…


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marian has scary, sexy feelings, Anders starts to deeply regret his (many) poor decisions, people get shirtless, and the plan is revealed...

Three drinks in and Marian felt strangely good.A gentle, warm buzz shimmered through her body. Time seemed thicker, slower, more like treacle. Questions about their new companion, “Angus”, had quickly fizzled out after he’d laid it on thick about being from some nowhere shithole near Crestwood and visiting because he couldn’t stand watching his gravely ill mother slowly shrivel to a husk.

So the runaway mage was also a consummate liar. Not exactly a revelation. More a relief. Even Eleri hadn’t had the audacity to pry after Anders had started really going for the heartstrings. Pad looked stricken by the tale; Sheep just looked awed, and had started fooling around with some wistful elven lament as a fitting score.

Said wistful elven lament was sounding much, much worse as the night wore on, but it blended into the soft, ambient noise of laughter, hiccups and Eleri energetically trying to unravel the ever-more-intricate web of exactly which Chantry sisters had (allegedly) slept with which Templar recruits.

All giggles, sweeping, wild arms and increasingly bawdy gestures, she’d draped herself across Pad, long hair spilling across his lap like spun copper. “Um, well, actually, _I_ heard they got caught singing the Chant _very_ passionately on the altar, if you know what I mean—like _right_ on top of it, I swear, and kept on going at it like rabbits even when the Reverend Mother walked in to start Benedictions! The animals!”

“Saucy bastards.” Catching one of her flailing hands and pressing a soft, affectionate kiss to her knuckles, Pad almost sounded impressed. “Don’t get any ideas, El. No corrupting our precious Sheep in the eyes of the Maker, you hear?”

Flat on his back now, Sheep cackled, his lute jiggling where it balanced on his stomach. Empty bottles dotted the grass around his head like a halo. “Shagging beneath the ever-watchful gaze of a stature of Andraste as she burns on the pyre? How romantic. Think I’ll pass, thanks.”

Laid on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, Marian grinned as she stared into the dancing fire and listened. Everything was starting to feel a little fuzzy, fraying at the seams: her body, her thoughts, the world. Slow and sloppy and syrupy, like she were drifting through a dream.

Well, everything apart from Anders’ squawks. He was sandwiched between Pad and Sheep, elbows balanced on his bony, bent knees and drink in hand, with a horrified and very dazed look on his face. Marian hadn’t clocked him as a Chantry boy—but then he did live under constant Templar supervision, a rat in a gilded, godly cage. You probably didn’t suffer through that without getting indoctrinated, or without getting any other ideas quickly encouraged out of you. Every time anyone mentioned the trial, he’d splutter something like “This is—this is morally wrong! _”_ and then stare at his bottle of poitín like it was a murder weapon, before taking another gulp to try and drown the guilt.

“Are you _really_ related?” Eleri had piped up after the third time, eyes raking over him. “You’re telling me this is the cousin of Marian ‘fuck the Maker, I’m so edgy’ Hawke? The girl who once told the Reverend Mother she could stick the Chant where the sun doesn’t shine in front of half of Lothering?”

Anders had gawked at Marian like she’d just throat-punched a child in front of him. “You _what?”_

 _Shut up, fuckwit!_ she’d mouthed, before forcing a laugh. “There’s always the weird, traditional ones in the family, right? You know how it is!”

Whether Anders’ freckled, slightly sunburnt cheeks were flushed because of the drink, the heat, or sheer fluster, nobody could really tell. But what was abundantly, _deliciously_ clear was that he very much did not like what they were about to do—which made Marian suddenly like what they were about to do very much indeed.

The intoxicants probably helped, too. Poison at first, the infusion was a strange sort of pleasure eventually. The more she drank, the more it stung, like she was swallowing a jarful of bees, though the pure punch of alcohol was masked by notes of bright elderberry and crisp, sweet apple. The more she drank, too, the more the knot of stress and anger and weird, weird attraction was starting to unwind within her.

So the mage was a bump in the road. But maybe he’d prove useful. He had prior on breaking out of Chantry buildings; maybe she’d use him to break _in._ He’d be an accomplice. A whining, pious canary to shove down this particular coal-mine.

Or, if it came to it, a scapegoat she could oh-so-handily abandon.

If she was a nicer person, maybe she’d have felt guilty that the idea soothed her. Letting out a smooth breath, Marian knocked back another scorching mouthful. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liss grin and do the same, the tips of her fingers stained by the kaddis she was mixing by the light of the fire. The girl’s eyes glittered as she let her gaze linger on Marian for a second, then two, then three.

Beneath it, Marian felt her heart shiver. That knot in her belly tightened ever-so-slightly. Biting her lip, she dragged her eyes back to the fire, grip tightening around her bottle.

A few weeks before, drunk and fumbling, Liss had pulled her aside on their way home from another late-night session, drawing her into the mouth of a narrow, shadowed snickleway that curled between ramshackle buildings like a dark, endless thread. Liss had looked Marian in the eyes and, slowly, had slipped a finger beneath her chin. Tilting the younger girl’s face up to the pale, swaying glow of distant torches, she’d grinned, then asked:

_“Are you ready to become a real woman, little bird?”_

Soft as silk, the ghost of Liss’ touch still lingered. At the memory, Marian felt her body burn. She took another drink, eyes fixed ahead, not daring to glance to her left. Anxiety and something else, something much sweeter, started to flutter in her chest.

But this would be fine. This would be _fine_. This would be totally fine! This was what she’d been waiting for for months, and a hideously irritating runaway mage with an upsettingly nice face wasn’t going to fuck it up! This was going to go _so_ smoothly _._ Screw Summerday. Screw the dumb dress and exalted march to the Chantry. _This_ was where she’d prove herself. She was going to be impressive as fuck. And she was going to get her payback for everything this stupid, hot—no, fuck, only _slightly attractive_ —fool had done to her, too. She was going to break into the Chantry and commit a small, tiny, really very minor crime—oh, Maker, it probably wasn’t minor at all, was it, oh no, oh shit—

The clang of a bell burst through the air, splitting the night in two.As the grove erupted into life around her, Marian’s heart plummeted to her feet.

“Midnight!” Sheep whooped, throwing himself to his feet and strumming the lute madly. “The witching hour! Time for our daring heroes to face their dastardly trial and finally _come of age_ …”

Peeling herself off Padric, Eleri sprang upwards, her embroidered dress billowing around her, soft as a cloud. She strode towards Marian with the drive of a chevalier and the balance of a new-born foal, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Throwing out a hand, she wiggled her fingers impatiently.

After a moment of everything in her screaming _absolutely fucking not,_ Marian took it, though everything was starting to become too loud and too fast and too much of a terrible idea.

“Arise, sparrow!” Eleri sang, pulling her up so fast that Marian crashed into her arms and nearly toppled them both. “Liss, you—” she hiccuped —“you ready?”

A slightly terrifying laugh answered. “Do my canvases await?”

Pad had already swooped up and hoisted Anders to his feet as though the mage weighed little more than a few sacks of flour. Slapping him on the back, he yelled, excessively loudly, “Shirts off, younglings!”

“What?” Anders half-squawked, half-coughed, dropping the empty bottle still in his hand at the impact with a hollow _thunk_ _._ Tips of his ears burning pink and eyes growing wild with alarm, he hugged himself defensively with his long, slender arms. “Maker’s balls, are you joking—I never agreed—this is—”

“Shirt _off,”_ Marian barked, with much more vigour than she’d intended, then felt mortification curl through her at everyone’s slightly confused reactions. _Fuck._ Never mind that he was her “cousin.” She didn’t _want_ to see him half-naked. Did she? Fuck, maybe she did. Shite. No. _Get it together, you hallion!_

Flustered, Anders shot her a dirty look and, after a moment of looking intensely uncomfortable, shucked off his dirty overshirt to reveal a long, narrow torso, patchworked with a handful of mottling bruises that, no doubt, were her doing. A few scars, too, across his delicate collarbones and lean biceps. And a fine scattering of hair across his chest, and down from his belly-button, slipping beneath the waistband of his loose pants…

Sheep wolf-whistled, then immediately apologised.

“Your turn, _cousin,_ ” Anders muttered, eyes narrowed at her. Suddenly, Marian realised she’d been staring; she jolted out of her daze to find Eleri stood right in front of her, her poitín-breath cloying and warm.

“Your turn indeed, sparrow,” Eleri echoed, poking at Marian’s cheeks until she grunted in defeat, shimmied away from the prodding and finally loosened the lacings of her dark peasant blouse. Slipping it over her head and dropping it to the ground, she tried not to curl in on herself as she stood there in nothing but her binder, the night air nipping at her bared skin.

“Before we paint,” Pad called, “a final tradition! You see, dear Ango, we don’t let ourselves into the Maker’s fine house for nothing. No! Each year, we disaffected youths of Lothering try to spirit away a little memento—and exactly what that is, the previous year’s tribute gets to choose. A lovely test for those about to go on their Summerday procession! So, Elisabet, tell us: what is your heart’s desire?”

Marian knew what came next. It had been all she could think about for weeks, waking or in dreams. Oh, the desire demons had had fun with this. It was one bargain every part of her ached to make. One temptation she couldn’t dare let slip to her father. How many times had she nearly given in?

Yes, Marian knew what came next. But she still wasn’t ready.

When she felt Liss’ finger trace cold, smooth kaddis down the base of her spine, her mind set alight.

“One copy of the Randy Dowager,” Liss murmured, as she drew. “Happy hunting, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! all I can really say about this is that Hawke is, truly, a sixteen-year-old bisexual disaster. god bless.
> 
> check out the next upload to see how the kids' raid of the Chantry's restricted section goes. will Anders have a minor breakdown half-way through? only the Maker (and my very rough outline) knows...


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two slightly drunk teens break into a Chantry - but will two slightly drunk teens make it out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long one, folks! cw - a lot of swearing. like, a LOT. also, implied threats of violence towards the end.

“The plan? Simple, Anders. Get in! Steal the fucking thing! Get out! It’ll be fine. It’ll—” something between a burp and hiccup— “be f _iiiiiiii_ ne.”

How many times had Marian exclaimed this, far too loudly? Seven, by his last count. Or maybe five. Or eight? Anders wasn’t sure, really. Everything was fucked. He was fucked.

Maker, he was so, so fucked. And he was also shirtless, covered in weird dog paint and dangling between a dangerously thin branch and a Chantry window-ledge. If this was what got him made Tranquil, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be proud or disgusted. But then he’d also be Tranquil, so he probably wouldn’t give a single, solitary shit.

The Maker would give a shit, though. The Maker always gave a shit.

“You in yet? Andraste’s flaming arsecheeks, you’re meant to be good at this. Don’t embarrass me!”

Marian sounded bored, and also rather drunk. The _get in_ part of the plan seemed to involve her standing at the base of the tree, equally shirtless and covered in weird dog paint, and watching him try to knock the window off its catch with nothing but a few sharp twigs and a prayer. ‘Being on watch’, she called it. ‘Doing sweet fuck all’ seemed more accurate.

“You did a great job of embarrassing yourself in front of your girlfriend,” he hissed, sliding his sturdiest twig between the window’s two sashes. “Looked like you were going to have a breakdown the second she got her hands on you.”

Two seconds of jiggling in, the twig snapped, half of it lodging in the mechanism. _Fuck._

“I—she—not interested—just friends—we—”

Anders tuned her stutters out. He and longing were old pals; longing had been writ plain in the way Marian had looked like she was dying slightly as Liss had daubed her with the kaddis. Liss had seemed caught in the moment, too. When she’d finished her masterpiece, she’d been entranced by the patterns spiralling across the other girl’s skin, though she hadn’t been able to look Marian in the eye. For all Liss' icy bravado, her muttered “ _don’t_ get caught” as they’d parted ways had been surprisingly soft. Tender, even.

They could deny it all they wanted, but they wanted each other.

And Anders wanted to get this out of the fucking way so he could get the fuck out of Lothering as soon as was fucking possible. Gritting his teeth, he wriggled forwards, wincing as bark ripped into his bare chest, and stretched a kaddis-smeared hand towards the darkened window. Every muscle in him tensed as the branch groaned against his weight, trembling beneath him—but it held, thank the Maker.

Fingertips splayed in mid-air, barely a hair’s breadth from the cracked glass, he was close enough for what he needed to do. A cloying, shameful feeling wormed through him at the knowlege. Guilt, it turned out, wasn’t the best mixer.

This was wrong. This was so, so wrong.

_Vergib meine Sünden._

Shards of ice splintered from his hand, sheeting across the window, spiking through the gap between the sashes with a _crack._

If only Karl had been here. Karl, the agreeable, affable mage, who always said magic wasn’t just some hammer for every problem nail in existence. Anders - as with most things - liked to disagree. Maker, how he could’ve gloated. Fully stretching, he hooked his fingers beneath the thick skin of ice coating the lower sash and heaved, fingers burning with frost. After a second of resistance, the window shuffled open with the barest creak.

Perfect. Now he was a runaway mage _and_ a burglar. His list of sins grew longer with each breath. Hello, Tranquility!

“We’re in,” he hissed, downwards.

“I mean, she’s _great_ —did it sound like she wasn’t great—I think she’s—what?”

Marian was still going? Maker’s breath.

“Get moving,” he snapped. “And just fucking kiss her already!”

He didn’t hear her strangled response, because he’d launched himself head-first through the gap in the window.

And landed face-down on bare, scratchy floorboards with the _thunk_ of a dead body rolling into a grave. A _thunk_ loud enough for the Maker himself to hear, wherever He was. Shit. Anders held his breath, tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead as he pressed against the floor for what felt like an eternity, willing nothing to answer his noise. Near-total darkness swarmed around him, tepid and thick. A strange hum, too—but something not human, and something quiet enough that he wasn’t sure if it was just the drink, gnawing at the edge of everything, tricking him.

Nothing answered.

Scrambling up to his hands and knees, Anders grinned. Maybe Pad’s plan to distract whoever was guarding the place had worked. Maybe the Templars here slept like stones. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Get in, steal the thing, get out. Easy as—

Marian landed on him with a yelp.

His body shrieked as they collided, his bruises from where she’d tackled him earlier throbbing, but panic drowned out the pain. In an instant, he’d rolled her off him, had pressed her to the ground, had clamped a hand over her mouth and hissed _“quiet”_ before she could even take a gulp of air.

The Circle had taught him something. That it was how to momentarily incapacitate a collaborator was beside the point. Her breaths were hot and damp against his palm, her paint-streaked body clammy and twitching beneath his, but she stayed quiet. She didn’t fight, surprisingly. Did she...trust him?

The groan of a door opening sounded through the silence. Footsteps followed, slow and thudding. Getting louder. Pausing.

A moment crawled past. Another. And another.

The steps retreated. The door closed.

Marian bit him.

* * *

Kaddis tasted bad. Like blood and dirt and rot.

Or maybe Anders tasted like that. Probably not. She hadn’t broken flesh, she didn’t think. She’d nipped just enough to make it known that if he thought he could pin her against the floor without her consent, he had another thing coming. A warning, really. Not that you could tell from his reaction.

He’d practically leaped off her, clattering into something behind him. “What the fuck!”

And now there were weird wisps in the air, dancing around the hand she’d bitten in lazy orbits, all ethereal blue and shining. And was he whispering to them? In some weird language, some kind of magic language they all had to speak at magic prison?

_“Nein, nein, alles ist gut! Keine Angst, machen Sie sich keine Sorgen.”_

The wisps dispersed, drifting past her. They were bright enough to cast a cool glow across the boxy, small room they were in, illuminating what had been nothing but dark lumps against a darker background. Now, she could see they were stout and barrel-shaped, covered with reams of thick, pale cloth—cloth that was now staining scarlet where it touched Anders. _Bollocks_. So much for not leaving a trace.

Illuminating Anders, too. Covered in smudged kaddis, he looked ghastly in this light, like a ghoul doused in blood. Sat dazed on the floor, mouth hanging open as she blinked up at him, she must’ve looked the same.

“Speak for yourself,” she murmured. “What is this?”

She’d never seen anything like it. Mind, all she had to go off was her father’s magic, plus what little she and Bethany could do. But Malcolm never summoned…whatever these were. He didn’t talk to tiny lights in a strange tongue she’d never heard.

“This is why I’m in the tower,” Anders replied, as if that was a sufficient explanation.

“No shit! And does everyone there speak Magic with a big M?”

“What?” He tried not to laugh, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Magic? That was Ander.”

Ander. Anders. Did this make sense? “None of this makes sense.”

“Look. My father was—isfrom the Anderfels. So I’m Anders. I was speaking Ander to those spirits, which don’t give a toss about what language you speak to them in so long as you speak to them. They think you’re trying to murder me. Which, even after having known you for less than a day, seems a reasonable deduction.”

Spirits. He was talking to spirits. He could summon spirits. He could tell spirits what to do. Marian felt a little faint. Then again, that could’ve been the poitín. “You’re…are you—maleficar—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Also, I was trying to help!” He waved his hand around like a loon. “And you _bit_ me!”

“Boo hoo! Touch me without my permission again and I’ll take a proper chunk out of you,” she muttered, picking herself up and shoving any nerves down. Liss had given her a job to do. Maleficar or no, she was going do it. “Now come on. I have a dirty magazine to steal.”

“Steal some _smut_? This is what I’ve sacrificed freedom for?”

“Should’ve stayed in that barn, huh?” She said, with a horrible smile.

Anders huffed in annoyance, tugging a hand through his hair as he started towards the door, but he jerked to a stop when he realised his fingers were still smeared with kaddis. “Shit. How do you get this stuff out?”

Marian raised an eyebrow at the lumps behind him. “Your luscious locks are the least of our problems.”

“What? Oh, _shit._ ” Frantically, he twisted around and tried to smudge the stains off the cloth, but the marks only grew bolder. No doubt he was having a minor crisis, with this being blesséd Chantry property and all: his breaths were coming more ragged, until he let out a muffled noise of defeat, bunched the cloth in his hands and hurled it into the corner of the room.

Instantly, the spirits swarmed—not around him, though. Around what lay beneath the dust-sheet. She’d been right: they were barrels, of a sort, clustered together. But they weren’t made of wood or sealed shut with wax, like the casks Liss’ parents used to age their cider. These were crafted from some sort of thick, dark metal, inlaid with a cascading geometric design, their lids clamped on with interwoven vices. Watery, azure light slipped through the seals around the lids, a similar, pulsing glow as the wisps.

And, if she held her breath, if she listened past the thrumming of her heart, Marian swore she could almost hear them humming, whispering a faint, gentle melody that drew her— _urged_ her—closer.

Why were her palms itching? Why was she feeling this surge inside her, this lure? Tentatively, she started towards the closest container. A look wouldn’t hurt. A quick look…

“Don’t.” Before she could take a step further, Anders blocked her way, storming past to reach the door. Dropping to his knees, he fiddled with the locking mechanism, muttering _geh weg, geh weg._ At his words, the wisps shuddered out of existence, like candles snuffed by a cool wind.

Marian tried to snigger, tried to ignore the pull at the edge of everything. “Desperate to rob the Maker now, are we?”

Pausing, Anders looked her dead in the eye.

“They kill lyrium smugglers on sight,” he said, flatly.

Lyrium? This was lyrium? Of _course_ this had to be the room they broke into. Dread started to creep through her. She didn’t want to die—especially not in a Chantry. “But we’re not trying to steal _that_ —”

“You think they’ll know? You think they’ll care?”

A good point. A very good point. And a satisfying _click_ to accompany it _._ Maker, he was good with locks. Good with his hands—

Nope! No! He was not hot. He was a prick—no, a cock—oh, Maker’s _balls_ , this was going to be the end of her.

“Know your way around?” Anders looked hopeful, the fool.

Marian scoffed. Know her way around the one place she tried to avoid like it were the plague? “Hardly. You think they let just anyone up here?”

“Wonderful.” He rose, looking like he regretted every decision he’d ever made. “Just…I’m quite good at this. Do what I do. Don’t make a sound. If anyone sees you, run.”

“Fantastic life advice,” Marian muttered, but the door was already open and he was already halfway down the dimly lit corridor outside, silent as a ghost. Shadows danced along the stone walls and the worn wooden floor, twisting with the flicker of the lamps dotted down the door-lined passage. Half-bathed in darkness, Anders looked less a man and more a spectre.

 _There goes my canary_. Taking a long, deep breath, Marian edged out of the storage closet to follow him. Up ahead, he paused every so often, shuffling closer to doors to listen for any signs of life. Most of this wing seemed to be bedrooms; four doors down, he threw her a grimace.

There were…noises coming from the room, barely muffled by the closed door. Very _particular_ noises. Noises no devout, sworn Chantry sister should be making.

Oh, Eleri was going to be delighted when she found out.

 _Animals,_ Marian mouthed.

Anders cracked a nervous smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, then picked his way to where the corridor branched off _._ Tracing his steps, Marian pressed into him, craning her neck around the corner. The Chantry was shaped in a stout _T_ , like a hangman’s gallows; they were at its centre. Right must’ve led to the stairs down into the hall of worship: a musky, choking cloud of incense drifted from that direction. Mixing with the kaddis still on her tongue, it was enough to make her gag.

“Straight on,” she murmured, eager to get away. Without a second thought, he crept forwards, towards the row of doors on the left-hand wall. The first was barred. The second room was occupied. But the third door, adorned with a sign that read _restricted,_ swung open at his touch.

Strange. Surely the Templars would be a little more vigilant about the sacrilege they confiscated. It wasn’t as if they had much else to do. Lothering was the armpit of Ferelden, after all.

Anders didn’t seem to care. He poked his head in, cast a toothy grin towards her, then disappeared.

Part of Marian wondered whether she should feel more worried that the door had been open, that nobody had discovered them yet, that something about this felt rather off. The rest of her was elated as she sidled towards the room, mirroring his steps, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. Once they found the _Dowager_ , the hard work was done. She’d present it to her friends with a flourish, would finally be one of them, would get her reward, the reward she’d been dreaming of for weeks—

“Tall. Blonde. Fade-touched. Dangerous.”

Three steps from the doorway, Marian froze. Voices had started to mingle with the incense pluming from below. Voices, debriefing, laying out a description that sounded familiar. All too familiar.

“Dangerous?”

“Fourth escape. He won’t come easily now he’s older. Greagoir wants the brand.”

A scoff. “Irving’s too soft to do what’s necessary.”

“And the apostate’s in Lothering? You’re sure?”

“Oh, he’s close. May as well take our time tonight. He cast recently, the fool. Phylactery’s bright as Andraste's funeral pyre.”

“Stupid little rat. Doesn’t he know we’ve had him trapped from the start?”

“Giving them a taste of freedom always makes the punishment more enjoyable.”

Marian had never heard a truly chilling laugh, until now. But then, there was a sound even worse, a sound that made every hair on her body stand on end: the chime of armoured boots against stone stairs.

“Happy hunting,” someone called.

“Happy hunting!” A voice replied, suddenly much, much louder.

For a moment, Marian just stood there, frozen, staring past the half-open door. Staring at Anders as he rummaged through piles of parchment and pamphlets, smearing them with warpaint. Not only a runaway, now, but a vandal. A thief. A blasphemer. Framed by spears of moonlight pouring through the cracked window in front of him, he was blissfully, horribly unaware

The Templars had found him.

And she’d not only waltzed him straight into a trap.

She’d laid it.

Marian stood there. Marian felt like she were about to throw up. Marian ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these dumb idiot children are really in deep now, huh
> 
> thanks for reading! writing this chapter was like getting blood from a stone - why can't characters just sit and be assholes and have feelings instead of having to DO things.
> 
> also, I dearly hope my German cousin wasn't trolling me with his translations. Any German speakers, please let me know if it doesn't make sense!


End file.
